


Bloom

by magnoliafilms



Series: The Things I Do For You [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different Powers, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Crown Prince!Chan, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Violence, fire related injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26959909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnoliafilms/pseuds/magnoliafilms
Summary: Simply Put; Chan's a bit of a useless Crown Prince.Where other children his age started demonstrating their individual powers at just thirteen years old, Chan still seems to have no luck. (So what, he's a late bloomer.)But to top it all off like a nice explosive cherry on a mound of absolute bullshit, he's only just beginning to realise that he might be in love with his private tutor.Fuck.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Series: The Things I Do For You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967383
Comments: 9
Kudos: 112
Collections: 3RACHA Events: Scene Stealers Fic Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt #SSF45 – "Crown Prince!Character A having an undeniable crush on his private tutor, Character B, and doing anything in his power to catch his attention."
> 
> As you can tell, I kinda went a little off the rails, the rails meaning: keeping this under 10k and _not_ planning four sequels...  
> So look forward to that... I'm sorry to the prompter, I hope this was at least slightly like what you had in mind.

Mornings were Chan’s favourite time of the day. 

His younger brother would often disagree with him and loudly complain at family breakfasts about how unfair it was that only one of them got to be an early bird. Chan only ever laughed back at him as he sipped at his tea amicably. 

Of course, the evening walks through the palace gardens were always lovely. Watching the sun as it coloured the night sky, as it darkened and lit up with thousands of lights from millions of miles away. The soft light that shrouded the courtyards. The smell of freshly clipped grass. The little sounds of night time as the creatures in the garden moved around.

The way the warming embrace of nighttime didn’t seem at all disappointed in him. The soft way the wind seemed to say “ _ we don’t mind _ ”. It was at night time that he felt most at home.

But morning’s meant that he got to see Minho. His tutoring sessions lasted three hours, every weekday, beginning at ten o’clock and finishing at lunch time. He was expected to arrive at the study early. Never simply on time. As the nation’s crown prince, it was expected that he would be many things. But prompt and well educated always seemed to be number one on the list. 

Minho never pressed him about being on time. It was simply an expectation that his tutor held and had faith that Chan would show up.

This was where Chan’s shortcomings began. 

Chan was perfectly capable with his studies in History and English. His grasp of Philosophy was outstanding and he was becoming quite the playwright. His expertise in notation and score reading was exquisite, and his seemingly god given talent for the violin astounded even the most prolific musicians. 

His incompetencies were in other areas. 

Chan, at the age of nineteen and a half, had no clue what his area of magic was. Most of the other nobles’ children had developed and begun to master theirs at younger ages. There were even civilian children who had discovered their own mediums before him. In most cases, the first signs usually came on one’s thirteenth birthday. However, Chan’s magic had yet to reveal its true nature. 

On the boy’s thirteenth birthday, Chan’s younger brother Yedam, had awoken to find himself floating about a metre above his bed. The windows were blown wide open and strong gusts of wind had tossed anything that wasn’t securely held down around the room. 

The maids had been alarmed, to say the least. But after spending a good two hours spinning around in the air, his mother had been brought in and Yedam had been coaxed back to the ground with kind words and sparkling smiles. 

At just three years younger than Chan, the young boy was praised for discovering his medium so early on. And had transitioned straight into history of magic and medium studies. Their mother was ecstatic. Their father couldn’t have been more proud. 

_ “Just like his mother that one is.”  _

_ “Can’t say much for the other one though can we.” _

Chan could never be upset at his brother's achievements. So he pushed down the suffocating sense of disappointment and moved on.

But Chan’s lack of medium and major study was seen as a weakness by those in the kingdom. There was talk among the people. Most were sympathetic.

“Oh how sad.” They’d say, “The poor boy doesn’t have something of his own.”

But others were skeptical, and were unbelieving of his ability to be next in line. “How can he be fit to rule when even his own powers don’t agree with him?” 

“Wouldn’t his brother be a better fit?”

Chan did his best to ignore the gossip, the idle chatter, the rumours. Of course, he never blamed Yedam, it was simply luck of the gene pool. His parents both had extremely powerful mediums. Fire manipulation for his father, wind speaking for his mother. Chan was only ever himself. No modifications, or talents or skills. He was Chan. He couldn’t hide behind the pretence of power through his medium.

That’s what he held onto, that overwhelming display of normalcy. 

For Chan’s sixteenth birthday, his father had employed a peer tutor at the advice of his general council. The elders had been concerned for Chan’s ascension to the throne and had hoped that a tutor and some experience would enhance Chan’s likelihood of discovering his medium. It was not the birthday present he had been expecting, but one he gladly accepted. Chan had taken such a liking to his tutor’s teaching methods that he had personally insisted that he be kept on. 

Lee Minho had trained under a senior mage for most of his life. He specialised in floral magic, but was well versed in most areas of magic and knew almost all of the advanced history surrounding the subject. At just fifteen he had been deemed suitable for mentoring others. At sixteen, Chan’s father had heard of his talents through another senior mage on the king’s council. He had sent word and immediately summoned the boy to the castle.

They’d begun their lessons simply. The first of which were mainly tests, attempts and provocations to get Chan’s magic to reveal itself. However, after a few failed attempts, Minho had resorted to book learning. Studying history and the relevance of the War of Mages. How magic affected family lineage and the likelihood of having the same kind of medium within a bloodline. His belief was that exposure to the subject might knock something loose and force something to shift. 

But now, just over three years later, Chan still felt as useless as ever. He was no closer to discovering his medium than he had been all those years ago. Minho was as patient and silent as always. The dynamic between them always remained the same. The only thing that seemed to have changed between the two of them was the development of Chan’s ginormous castle-sized crush on the other boy. 

But Minho was as faithful to his duties as he was to the crown. His job was as a mentor. Not a romantic partner. Chan would never use his influence to somehow woo Minho, but he had to at least admit that the idea had crossed his mind once or twice. 

He was not the subtlest flirt in the kingdom, but Minho’s steadfast indifference was always secured firmly in place. It sat across his face like a mask at all times. Chan almost believed Minho imperceptible to his evident charms. 

Minho who was kind. And patient. And treated Chan as a person. Not as someone who needed help. Or wasn’t enough because of his lack of magic. He still treated Chan as an intelligent individual. Held interesting conversations within their sessions. Taught Chan other areas of magic. Made him feel as though he was worth more than his powers (or lack of). 

This morning however, Chan was running late. He always tried his best to be on time. 

Except this morning, he wasn’t. This morning he had just been informed of a gala that was being held in his honour. His parents had decided that they would find his future partner and royal consort at said gala. And Chan wasn’t particularly interested.

He was feeling a little shaken up, to say the least. 

Minho stood in front of the door to the study. His back pressed against the thick wood, but he stood as though he were not leaning against it. He held a small paperback novel. It appeared as though it had been previously owned with its soft, worn edges and yellowed pages. The front cover was decorated with a variety of gorgeous flowers in varying shapes and sizes. He barely looked up when Chan approached. 

“You are late.” He sounded unimpressed. 

Chan thought of his father and fought back a frown that threatened to creep across his face. He pressed his lips into a firm line and reminded himself that Minho was not to blame. 

“Sorry,” He said after a moment of silence, “I got caught up in some family matters.”

“ _ Family matters _ ,” Minho said plainly, “We have lots of work to do, your father expects you to at least be demonstrating your medium by the gala.”

“He what?!” Chan said loudly, the king didn’t usually try to involve himself in Chan’s lessons. But giving him less than a week to discover something so vital to his life seemed a little unrealistic. 

Minho did not respond, only hummed softly. He snapped his book shut and tucked it into one of the many pockets in his dark coat. It was not cold in the castle. Chan had always been unsure as to why he wore the coat in doors. Minho turned and opened the door to the study.

As he stepped through the doorway, he slid his arms from the sleeves of his coat. It was such a precise and practiced movement, and Chan felt as though he could watch it on repeat forever. Minho slung his coat over his left forearm and moved to the coat stand in the corner. 

Once his coat was hung, he stepped over to the large oak desk that had been placed in the centre of the room. It was not untidy, merely strewn with countless open informatives and studies. He lifted a book from the middle of the desk and presumably resumed from where he left off yesterday. 

Chan watched every motion with attentive eyes. Minho’s lip curled slightly on the left side and Chan knew he’d been considering a solution, a potential fix.

“Chan, Can you remember Professor Yang’s sixteenth law of Magic?”

Chan froze. They had covered Yang’s laws nearly two years ago. He closed his eyes, thinking back. The eighth was the law of restraint. The eleventh law covered mind control and bodily manipulation . Thirteenth focused on Dark Magics and work with the dead.

“Emotive Magic?” Chan was unsure, but he’d learnt that guessing was better than not knowing at all. Minho’s mouth rolled into a smirk, he didn't look up from his book. 

“I’ve had an idea. I understand that recently we’ve been focusing on the literature side of study, but I was thinking about this last night and I thought of Yang’s Laws.”

Chan had to fight the grin that tried to force its way onto his face at the idea that Minho was thinking of him. “But what do Yang’s Laws have to do with anything.” He said instead. 

Minho dropped the book he was holding onto the table with a dense thud. “You see, I had this–” He paused crouching down at the base of a large bookshelf that was pressed against the far wall. “I had this theory that a strong emotional reaction might provoke a reaction within your internal workings and unlock the true nature of your medium.”

Chan watched Minho speaking as he skimmed a finger over the spines of each book. Chan was quite honestly feeling a little lost. 

“An emotional reaction?” Chan asked, trying his best to wrap his head around what was happening. Minho was racing around the room, he’d fetched a stool from under the table and was using it to reach some of the top shelves. “And what would that mean exactly?”

Minho’s hand stopped when it reached a thin red volume. The cover was blank except for seven neatly printed words. Minho spun it around as he turned to face Chan with a wide smile.

_ Emotional Reactions: How to control your Magic.  _ The cover read.

“It means, Chan,” Minho said firmly as he stepped down from the stool. “That we’re going to see what makes you tick.”

◒

“I really don’t see how this is going to work!” Chan called from where he stood. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when Minho had first presented his plan. 

“Don’t worry Chan!” Yedam shouted from where he stood beside Minho, “I’m sure Minho knows what he’s doing!”

Yedam had been roped into whatever this was, and Chan was becoming increasingly worried by the second. 

Minho was standing with his small red book. He’d been treating it almost as some sort of instruction manual, and Chan couldn’t tell whether that was concerning or reassuring. But they were standing outside in one of the more secluded areas of the palace garden. And a gentle breeze was blowing past them, ruffling the soft hair that fell over Minho’s forehead. 

Chan found himself staring hopelessly.

“Chan! Chan? Are you alright?” The call brought him back to the present, Minho was staring at him with a concerned expression.

Chan blinked, trying to process whether he’d been spoken to beforehand. “I’m fine,” he called in a wavering voice, and tried to ignore the curious look Yedam shot his way, “What am I supposed to be doing exactly?”

Minho sighed and raked a hand through his wind-blown hair, “I just explained this, Chan…” He said in an exasperated voice, “Were you listening at all?”

“No…” Chan said rather sheepishly, feeling his face heat slightly, he was grateful for the cool breeze that was blowing past.

Minho huffed and snapped his book shut. “This is an experiment that will determine whether a high emotional response will trigger a reaction within your intermedial core. Yedam and I have comprised a list of reactants that could help. Today, your job is to avoid the flying projectiles that we send your way.”

Chan nodded once.  _ Dodge the flying projectiles,  _ he thought bitterly,  _ Easy peasy.  _ The large pile of rocks and other rubbish located behind the pair seemed increasingly intimidating now that he knew its purpose. 

Minho turned to Yedam, “I have the palace medics on standby, so we’re good to go whenever you’re ready.” He said, and Yedam grinned. 

“Don’t worry Chan, I’ll go easy on you!” Yedam shouted while he pulled on a pair of leather gloves. 

Chan planted his feet, taking a few deep breaths and shaking out his hands as they hung by his sides. Yedam lifted his hands in front of him, palms facing upwards, he closed his eyes. The pile behind him began to shake, and eventually a few loose rocks and stones floated steadily into the air. 

After a moment, there was a beat of silence as Yedam stood with an arc of debris suspended above him like a halo. He opened his eyes, and smiled at Chan. Chan tipped his head and squeezed his hands into tight fists. 

Yedam sent a wave of rubble his way and Chan felt the way time slowed as the attack came at him with full force. The first wave was easy to avoid, but the second and third were denser and more heavily concentrated. By the fourth, he was beginning to lose hope. 

A particularly sharp stone smacked into his arm, slicing along the side. Chan ignored the sharp pain and the warm feeling of blood as it dripped down his arm.  _ Just a bit longer _ , he thought,  _ Something has to happen soon.  _

Something  _ did _ happen soon after. Though not nearly in the way Chan had imagined. 

A second jagged rock sliced into his thigh, causing Chan to falter. He clasped a hand at the gash, losing concentration for a second. He barely heard Minho’s warning shout as a rather blunt stone whacked against his temple. 

Everything went dark, and the sensation of hitting the ground felt dull as Chan’s senses began to fade away.

◒

Minho was sitting beside his bed when Chan woke up. His sheets felt tacky and he could feel the bandages on his arms and legs.

Minho looked up when Chan shuffled his legs under the blanket. “Oh,” He said, seeming rather unconcerned, “You’re awake.”

Chan groaned and flung an arm over his eyes, forgetting about the bandage on his temple. Stabbing pain grabbed his skull in a tight embrace and he tore his arm away. 

“Oh you absolute  _ numpty _ ,” Minho said as he stood quickly from his seat and leant over Chan. He pressed two gentle fingers against the soft skin between Chan’s eyes while he called for a medic. The pads of his fingers were calloused and rough, but the warmth and pressure was soothing. A nurse arrived with a small glass of clear, bubbly liquid. Minho stepped away and Chan mourned the loss of the sensation. 

“Drink this dear,” she said kindly, “It’ll numb the pain a little. And do try not to touch your bandages.”

She held the glass to Chan’s lips and tipped it back. It was bitter and sharp against his tongue and Chan fought back the desire to spit it out. It burned as it went down his throat, but almost immediately Chan began to feel a smidge better.

The nurse left and closed the door behind her with a click. Minho stepped closer to the side of Chan’s bed. He was feeling a little unsettled because of the medicine, but managed to sit upright against the pillows. 

“I didn’t mean to push you Chan,” Minho said apologetically, “Yedam feels just awful, even though I completely took the blame. When you’re feeling better you should go see him.” 

Chan frowned, “It’s not his fault  _ my  _ magic didn’t react. Maybe I should just give up Minho. It’s obvious this isn’t working.” He sucked in a breath, before muttering under his breath, “ _ It hasn’t for nineteen damn years. _ ”

Minho lifted a hand to rest it on Chan’s shoulder, careful to stay away from the bandages on his arm. “This is a minor setback Chan.” He said softly, “There are still other options.”

“Like what Minho?” He said harshly, and Minho’s face creased into something somber and upset as he pulled his hand away. Chan noticed and softened a little, “I really am grateful for all your work, but I think I’m just a lost cause. A defect.”

Suddenly, Minho snatched Chan’s opposite hand and held it tightly in his own. Chan’s mouth hung open slightly at the movement, but he refused to move or flinch away. “Crown Prince Chan Bang,” Minho said firmly, “I swear I will do everything in my power to help you find your medium, and so be it if I fail, but let it be with my dying breath.” He paused and his eyes held their gaze that Chan matched. “You are far from a defect.”

It was a promise. Fuelled by duty and something else, something Chan couldn’t quite place. His hand burned when Minho pulled away. Buzzed with an unnamable feeling. 

“Rest Chan, we’ll try again tomorrow.” Minho turned and left, and the second the door shut, Chan’s eyelids fell heavily shut and his head fell backwards into the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/ghoulhwa)  
> • [cc](https://curiouscat.me/chnledrm)  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Yedam came by. Knocking on the door quietly as he pushed it open. Chan was sitting half upright, the curtains had been drawn open and he was enjoying the way the morning sunlight was filtering through and landing warmly against his back.

“Good morning Yedam.” He said softly as Yedam moved nervously through the room. 

“Chan…” Yedam started, but trailed off, moving to stand at the side of Chan’s bed. He held out a hand as though to touch the bandages on Chan’s head, but pulled away quickly. “You’re not too hurt are you? I’m so so sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

“Yedam, calm down.” Chan said, resting a hand on Yedam’s arm. “I’m fine, they’ve given me heaps of pain medication, I can’t even feel it anymore.” It was for the most part true, but the silent throbbing in Chan’s head had yet to go away, and his hand still felt warm from Minho’s promise the day before. 

It seemed to work though, and Yedam took in a deep breath and sat in the chair by the wall. “And you’re absolutely certain that you’re alright.” Yedam said firmly, the suspicious look in his eyes was potent. And Chan lifted a hand to swat at the air as though he could dissipate the feeling.

“ _ I’m Fine.” _ Chan said calmly.

Yedam let out a begrudging sigh and sunk further into the seat. “Good,” He said, “Without you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Rule the country, I reckon.” Chan said in a teasing voice and Yedam gasped.

“I would never. I don’t want to rule!” He said quickly, and Chan rolled his eyes.

“Father would make you.” Chan said as he picked at the corner of the bandage on his arm. ‘Besides, everyone knows you’d be a better ruler than me. The people of this province absolutely  _ love _ you.”

“But the people love you too!” Yedam argued rather defensively.

Chan paused. “There is a difference Yedam. You are loved because of who you are, because you meet the expectations of a crown prince. I do not.” He paused, surprised at the tears that had suddenly appeared in the corners of his eyes. “I am simply a placeholder, until someone else is old enough to take the throne.”

Yedam stared at him, his mouth hung open and he too looked as though he were on the verge of tears.

“That’s why father is holding the gala. If I can’t find my own medium, he wants me to marry someone with one powerful enough for the both of us.” Chan’s voice cracked on the last two words, and he bit the inside of his lip as he watched a few silent tears drop down the side of Yedam’s nose.

“But you– What about–” Yedam stopped, took a heaving breath and glared at the floor. “But you're in love with someone else.”

Chan’s attention focused completely on Yedam, his heart began to race and his breaths came faster and faster. He ignored the sudden thudding that began to pound in his head underneath his bandages. “I–” He tried, voice crackling. Trying his hardest to play it cool, he started again, “What do you mean?”

Yedam rolled his eyes, “Come  _ on  _ Chan. Do you think I’m blind?”

Chan opened his mouth to try and come up with some sort of excuse or defend himself. But Yedam cut him off.

“Don’t even try to tell me it’s not Minho. I can  _ see  _ it.”

Chan closed his eyes. He hadn’t realised he was being quite so obvious about his feelings. It was cold in the room now. Perhaps Yedam had brought a small breeze with him, or maybe one of the windows had been left open.

“I am but a worthless excuse for a prince.” Chan said at last, “Minho can do better than me.”

Yedam frowned, “You don’t mean that.”

Chan looked down at his hands as a tear rolled down the length of his nose and dropped onto the white sheets covering the bed. 

“Minho will do better than me.”

Yedam stood up at that. He shot Chan one final scathing look, before storming out, winds slamming the door behind him. 

He seemed years older than he was during moments like these, and Chan couldn’t help but notice that the air felt just as cold – if not more so – then it had before.

◒

Minho arrived in the afternoon. And with him he brought out the gorgeous aromas that seemed to flood from the sympathy bouquets Chan’s mother had placed around the room.

Perhaps it was Chan’s imagination, or a side effect of the pain medication.

Minho sat on the edge of Chan’s bed, he pressed his lips into a tight line and stared at the wall.

“I must confess, Chan,” Minho said after a moment’s silence, “I’m not entirely sure where to go from here.”

Chan only watched on. He’d known from the beginning that this was a hopeless cause, that it was wrong for him to believe some ancient law of magic would provide any answers. 

“It’s alright,” Chan said quietly, “I’m sure my father will find some suitable young noble man’s daughter to marry me off to. At least you tried.”

Minho turned suddenly to look at him with a frown, “Chan… Don’t tell me you’re giving up? I would have hoped you’d have more faith in me then that.”

“No– Of course I have faith in you, Minho. It’s–” Chan took a deep breath, “It’s myself that I don’t have faith in. I’m afraid I’m just a lost cause at this rate.”

Minho picked at the dirt that had gathered under his nails. “You might be prepared to give up, Your Highness.” He turned to Chan and fixed him with blazing eyes, “But I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve, and I don’t intend to start now.”

It was with that that he stood and left the room rather abruptly. But he paused at the door, “I made you a promise, Chan. I intend to keep it.” 

And with that, he slammed the door rather forcefully behind him. 

◒

The nurse had administered him a final dose of medicine before deeming Chan fit to roam the castle on his own once more. Of course, Minho jumped on this opportunity almost immediately. 

The next morning, he was back. Bursting in through the door while Chan sat up, half asleep and barely coherent. 

“I’ve been researching all night, and I think I have an idea.” His eyes seemed wild, and he was clinging to the small book he always seemed to carry around with him. 

“Have you slept at all?” Chan asked earnestly. 

Minho paused, and considered the question for a second before responding, “Maybe? Perhaps a few hours early this morning…” He shook his head, “That isn’t important. Put your best travelling shoes on. We’re going walking.” 

Chan stared at the other boy for a moment. But Minho didn’t give him long to process before he was clapping his hands and shooing Chan towards his wardrobe to find the correct attire for whatever “mission” Minho had decided to take them on. 

“I’ll meet you by my study in fifteen minutes.” Minho said as he left the room. 

The gala was in two days. 

Chan wanted to slam his head into the nearest wall. 

◒

After putting on his most practical cloak and his best travelling shoes, Chan began to make his way towards Minho’s study. The castle felt oddly quiet for this early in the morning and Chan was surprised that there weren’t more staff bustling about. 

But he moved through the castle silently. When he arrived outside the door to Minho’s study, he was unsurprised to hear an excited voice babbling about the latest trick he had learnt. 

Chan pushed open the door, and closed it behind him.

“And so if I’m  _ really _ careful, I can levitate myself  _ and  _ the cats.” Yedam was saying, completely unaware that Chan had made his way into the room. 

Yedam had his back to the door, while Minho stood so that he watched Chan creeping up behind him. Chan lifted a silent finger to his lips, and Minho wordlessly raised an eyebrow.

With a rather pathetic war-cry, Chan leapt forwards and seized Yedam around the waist, lifting him up off the ground. “Would you look at that Minho!” He laughed, “Looks like I have levitation powers too.”

Yedam squawked, “Chan! Chan, put me down!” He beat at Chan’s arms in an attempt to set himself free, but he had no hope, Chan’s arms had locked around him and were keeping him suspended. 

Minho looked like he was doing his best not to burst out laughing, and the taut expression he was pulling to keep in his amusement was even more entertaining to Chan than the situation they had found themselves in. 

Chan released Yedam, and sunk to the ground, peals of laughter finally erupting from all three of them. 

Yedam was the first to recover, doing his best to dust himself off and straighten out his cloak. “Well now I know how the cats feel.” He said at last. 

Which only sent Chan into another fit of laughter. 

At last, they finally managed to calm down, and Chan picked himself off the floor, taking his own time to straighten out his cloak and dust himself off. 

He was still buzzing from the endearing smile Minho had sent his way and didn’t think he’d ever stop grinning like an idiot.

“Yedam will be joining us again today.” Minho said simply, pulling out his little journal. He was wearing his standard black working cloak, Chan had always wondered if he had multiple, or if he just wore the same one every day. 

Yedam turned to Chan, “I promise I won’t hit you with flying rocks this time.” 

“Goodness,” Chan said with a smile, “That’s a relief.”

Minho moved over to his desk and picked up an old worn satchel and began to fill it with at least six different books and three quills. 

“Are you sure you’ve got enough there, Minho?” Chan asked peering at the contents curiously. “Where exactly are we going?”

It was instead Yedam that responded, “You’ll see Channie-boy, I think this one might actually work.”

◒

They were half way up a mountain when the weather started to turn for the worse.

Mountain was generous. It was really more like a large hill. 

But the weather was truly miserable. The clouds opened up and heavy rain began to fall around them in a torrential downpour. Minho was leading the way and simply lifted his cloak hood to cover his face. Yedam followed suit shortly after. 

But Chan couldn’t be bothered. His cheeks felt hot from trekking up the mountain for the past two hours, and the cold rainwater felt soothing against his reddened skin. His hair was soaking, and he could feel it sticking wetly against his forehead. 

“Are you sure we should be out here in this kind of weather?” He called, hoping that the rain wasn’t drowning out his voice. 

“It’s just a little further, Chan.” Minho shouted back, he held tightly to the strap of his satchel, but his hand slid with the slickness caused by the water. 

Yedam stumbled at one point, and Chan had to rush forwards to put out a hand to keep him upright.

“Ok?” He asked and Yedam nodded, regaining his balance and continuing onwards. 

A little further was in actuality, a whole lot further than Chan had anticipated. Nearly an hour later, they had reached the top of the hill. 

Chan stopped when Minho set down his satchel and stood for a moment with his hands pressed against his knees. “I think…” He huffed in a deep breath, “That we have differing opinions of what ‘A little further’ means.”

Yedam snorted and Minho only smirked a little. “How else was I supposed to get you up here?”

The rain still fell around them, but Minho reached into his satchel and pulled out a piece of leather wrapped around something small. He unwound the string holding the leather in place and revealed two stone-like pieces. 

_ Runes _ , Chan realised, and he watched silently as Minho pressed each one in turn to his lips, before laying one against the pages of his little journal, and the other he held against his forehead. He murmured something wordless and stayed for a moment before wrapping the stones up once more and returning the small package to his satchel. 

“We all ready, chief?” Yedam said. He'd pulled out his leather gloves at some point when Chan had been watching Minho, and Chan felt the slightest surge of offness about the whole situation. 

Yedam only put his gloves on when he was doing heavy or constant lifting. Chan narrowed his eyes but said nothing. 

Minho stood, pushing himself upwards from where he crouched beside his satchel. He motioned for Chan to follow behind him. 

One side of the hill simply dropped off. At the bottom, stormsick waves crashed against jagged rocks that laid against the base of the cliff. They were standing awfully close to the edge, and Chan noticed that Minho was looking a little pale. 

“Are you alright?” Chan asked gently, putting a hand out to steady the other boy. 

Minho worried his bottom lip with his teeth, “I’m doing just fine, only a mild fear of heights. I’m working on it.”

Chan took his hand, “Are you sure? We can leave if you’d like. This isn’t nearly as important as you.”

Minho’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second and he looked as though he desperately wanted to say something, but from behind them both came a shout. 

“Now, Minho!” Yedam cried, and in a startled panic, Minho took the hand Chan held, and used it to push him off the side of the cliff. 

◒

The sensation of falling was one that Chan couldn’t say he’d ever experienced before. He was certain that the look of pure betrayal that must have shot across his face as he tumbled from the top would be emblazoned in Minho’s mind for eternity. But right now, he was a little more concerned about his own demise.

_ This is a test. _ He thought to himself, _ This is just another crazy idea to get my powers to show themselves.  _

The wind rushed past him.  _ Where are you? _

He gasped for breath. There was nothing coming, nothing to save him. He would simply hit the bottom and be just another tale, a failed experiment. 

Time slowed. 

For a second, Chan believed that he would die.

And then time came to a shuddering halt. The wind stopped rushing past and Chan found himself simply suspended. Held in the air. Hundreds of feet above him, he could see a small figure standing with his leather clad hands outstretched above the gaping drop beneath him. 

Chan began to rise. And at last he allowed himself a heaving sigh of relief. He turned to look down at the turbulent ocean below and severely wished he hadn’t. 

If Yedam had been any later, Chan really would have been dead meat. 

As he neared the top, he could make out the faint shape of Yedam’s self-assured smile. “Merlin, Brother. That was our best idea yet!”

Chan took yet another shuddering breath. “Good catch, Yedam.” He managed weakly.

Yedam smiled, “You think so? I reckon I’m getting pretty good.”

“Pretty good at taking _ years off my life _ .” Chan returned with a feeble smile. 

When Chan had been lifted enough to see above the edge of the cliff, he was met with Minho, crouched with his hands pressed tightly over his eyes in the same spot they’d been standing when he had pushed Chan over the side. 

Yedam lowered Chan to the ground gently and held him upright for a second as he took a shaky step onto solid ground for the first time in what felt like years. 

When he was certain he could stand on his own, he broke free from Yedam’s hold, and moved over to where Minho still crouched. Chan could now see that he too was shaking. And he dropped to his knees beside the boy.

“Minho?” He started softly.

Minho didn’t respond. Only reached out with wavering hands and pulled Chan in for a trembling embrace. “I’m sorry.” He said, again and again. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

It was then that Chan realised he was crying. “Hey,” he said quietly, “It’s ok, I’m right here. See?”

This vulnerability from Minho seemed unnatural. Minho wasn’t weak. 

But right now he was. And he needed someone to be there.

“I’m sorry.” He said again.

Chan just pulled him tighter into his arms, lifted his hand and threaded his fingers softly through the hair at the back of Minho’s head. 

“Yedam caught me. Look.” He pulled away and held his arms out as though to show that he was in fact, still whole, rather than broken into pieces, “Not a scratch.”

Minho’s eyes were red and his cheeks were tearstained, Chan reached forward a hand to try his best to wipe some of them away. 

Minho pulled him in close once more. “I shouldn’t have– I wasn’t going to…”

“I think we should get away from the edge.” Chan said simply, helping Minho to stand upright but never quite letting go.

Chan led the boy back over to where his satchel lay, just far enough away from the edge where you couldn’t see the cavernous drop. 

◒

It took a while before Minho finally calmed down. 

He pulled away from Chan, and sat so that his hands were pressed into the earth. He flexed his fingers and dug them into the soil.

He closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. Chan glanced over to where Yedam had been standing only to find him a few metres in the air, spinning slowly. When Chan shot him a questioning look, the boy only responded with a shrug. 

Minho pressed a hand against the side of Chan’s face, and Chan didn’t mind that it was covered in dirt.

“I’m okay.” He said a final time.

And Minho laughed, quietly at first, but growing in volume as he kept going. “You’re okay.” He said, and smeared the side of his dirt covered thumb across the bridge of Chan’s nose. 

Chan made a noise of surprise, but didn’t pull away. “Yeah,” he said at last.

Minho pulled him in again and pressed his nose against Chan’s shoulder. “I really thought this one would work. And then I saw how high up we were… And you were so kind, and I wasn’t thinking properly. I’m– I’m sorry, Chan.”

There was a beat of silence, the rain had slowed to a gentle spatter every now and again, and yet the sky was still completely clouded over.

“I’m not sure what else to do, Chan.” Minho admitted quietly, “And with the gala so close, I’m not sure how much more we’ll be able to test any of my theories.”

Chan had seen this coming. He’d been hopeful from the beginning, but there was always something in the back of his mind telling him that this was all worthless. That nothing he tried would be enough.

Chan hummed softly, “It’s alright, Minho. I understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/ghoulhwa)  
> • [cc](https://curiouscat.me/chnledrm)  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

The ballroom was crowded and noisy when Chan made his entrance. He stood at the top of the grand staircase, just out of sight of the peering eyes of those in attendance. 

Chan wasn’t sure what he had been expecting from this gala. He knew the intention was for one “lucky young noble” to take his hand in marriage to “further strengthen their country's unity.” Chan wondered how many provinces had been fed that same bullshit story.

They were being promised a crippled prince, with nothing to his name but a crown. 

“Chan!” Younghyun said rather impatiently from where he stood by the railing, “What took you so long?! Your parents have been wondering when you were planning to arrive.”

In actuality, Chan had been standing out on his balcony pretending there wasn’t a glittering ballroom waiting for his attendance. But Younghyun didn’t need to know that. 

Chan had known Younghyun since he was a child, they’d grown up together in the palace and Chan had been overjoyed when the older boy had been offered such a position. Though Chan secretly thought the guy liked to abuse his power just a little. Younghyun’s job was to introduce the young aristocrats that attended the gala’s that were held in the palace, and this evening, the candidates for Chan’s hand in marriage. It was also his job to introduce Chan, who had arrived nearly half an hour late. 

“Quickly,” He said, stretching a hand towards Chan to pull him over to the top of the stairwell. “Goodness gracious, your parents will be furious!” He straightened Chan’s tie and tugged on the sides of Chan’s suit jacket, rearranging all of the work one of the stylists had done earlier. 

“Smile.” Younghyun said forcefully through gritted teeth as he waved a hand and silenced the crowd. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Younghyun called out, instantly thousands of eyes were focused on Chan standing at the top of the staircase. And suddenly, Chan felt very small. 

“I present to you, the man of the hour, His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Bang Chan.”

The room erupted into polite applause as Chan began his descent down the large staircase. The carpet was a dark red velvety colour, and Chan chose to focus on that, rather than all the guests who were giving him their full attention.

When he finally looked up at the room, he saw his mother and father sitting in two lush throne-like chairs on a raised platform. They looked entirely the part of a regal king and queen as they surveyed the crowd gathered below them. Chan made a beeline towards them and made his way up to where they were seated.

He swept into a slight bow when he stood before them, the disdain on his father’s face was brittle, though his mother looked utterly radiant.

“Your majesties.” He said softly, and his mother smiled fondly.

“You look lovely darling.” She said and outstretched a hand towards him. 

His father was less kind, “You are late.” He said simply, his voice was almost disappointed, but unwavering.

Chan ducked his head in another bow, “My apologies sir.”

His father huffed, “I assume you remember why we are here this evening.” He said firmly, it was not a question. More along the lines of an instruction. 

“Of course, father.” Chan said courtly, gritting his teeth slightly at the meaning behind his words.

“Your majesties!” Said an all too bright voice from behind Chan. He whorled around to see the duke of one of the neighbouring provinces standing with a young man who glared at Chan incessantly. 

“Lovely to see you as always, Sungjin.” The queen said in a lilting voice, the tone in which she spoke was always kind and Chan could see the way she practically melted the man with her presence. No one seemed to be able to resist his mother. Chan often wondered if the universe had gifted her with two talents when she was born. 

“You look utterly  _ ravishing _ Sooyoung, and you Jihoon.” Sungjin swept into a bow, and nudged the boy beside him to do the same. “It is of my greatest honour to present to you Prince Han Jisung on behalf of the King and Queen of the Etherian Isle.”

“Lovely to meet you Jisung, I’m well acquainted with your mother.” Sooyoung said gently, and Jisung seemed to relax a little at the sound of her voice, “Such a shame your family couldn’t make it.”

“They send their regards,” Jisung said simply, tipping his head with a smile.

“Now,”Jihoon said, turning to Chan, “You should go and introduce yourself to Jisung, Chan. I’m sure you’ll find lots to talk about.”

Chan wanted to glare at his father, wanted to clench his teeth and just  _ say no. _ But instead he pulled his face into a crowd pleasing smile and again said, “Of course, father.”

He turned to face Jisung and fixed him with that same false smile, “Shall we?” he said, and when Jisung nodded, he made his way back down to the ground level.

“Do you dance?” Jisung said, he had to lift his voice slightly to be heard over the sound of the crowd.

“I’m the crown prince,” Chan said a little bitterly, “I’m expected to.”

Jisung laughed quietly, evidently missing the mild resentment in Chan’s tone, and held out a hand. The music played by the small violin quartet on the main stage carried across the room, and they fell into a steady waltz. They spun slowly around the dance floor, and those around them moved out of the way to make room for the crown prince and his current dance partner.

There were a few quiet gasps as they moved past, and the occasional pointed fingers. But Chan focused instead on the way his feet moved in time with the music. 

“You’re quite good.” Jisung said suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Chan asked in a confused tone.

“At dancing.” Jisung amended, “Where did you learn?” 

It was an attempt at conversation after a practically silent beginning. “I had a tutor, he taught me a few years ago.”

Chan thought of Minho. And, realising he hadn’t seen him all evening, Chan began to discreetly look around the room in search of the other boy.

He found Yedam in his surveillance of those in attendance. He was pressed against a wall on the far side of the ballroom, deep in conversation with one of the younger guards. Chan could never quite remember this one’s name, though he knew the boy was still in training to be a proper knight. He was brought back by Jisung once more. 

“You’ll have to give me their contacts then,” The boy said, “I really do need to get a little better at this.”

“You’re doing just fine.” Chan said absently, mind evidently elsewhere. 

Jisung sucked in an even breath and fell silent for the rest of the song. At the end Jisung moved away and dipped into a bow. “It was a pleasure to dance with you Chan, I do hope I’ll see you again soon.”

Chan found the almost hurt expression on his face confusing for but a second, but Chan thanked him as he backed away and almost instantly went pushing through the crowd in search of Minho. 

Some offended glances were shot his way as he shoved past a few groups of attendees, but the expressions were quickly wiped from their faces when they realised they were in the presence of the crown prince. 

At one point he thought he saw Minho speaking with one of the waiters holding a tray of champagne. He was about to surge through the crowd in pursuit, but was stopped.

“Your majesty.” An easy voice said from somewhere beside Chan. He turned abruptly and made eye contact with a dark haired boy. “Have you got time for a dance?”

Chan looked over the crowd once more, only to find Minho missing from the place he thought he’d seen him before. He turned back to the boy, “Of course.” He said, and extended a hand. 

The music picked up as they waltzed around the room. “My name is Seo Changbin,” the boy said evenly as they spun.

_ Ah, _ Chan thought,  _ One of the Seo Princes. _ Their families had long historical ties, it was no wonder Changbin was here.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Chan said, “I assume you know who I am.” He visibly cringed at how pretentious he sounded.

Changbin smiled a little at that, “I do.” 

“Lovely,” Chan said quickly, “Introductions aside, I suppose you are aware of the nature of this evening.”

“I’ve attended many of these, your majesty.” Changbin said rather diplomatically, “Though this is the first time I’ll be ‘competing’.”

Chan laughed at the word choice, “My father believes my lack of medium is a disadvantage to my ability to rule, he wants me to marry someone powerful enough for the both of us.”

Changbin started speaking, but Chan was lost once more. He had spied Minho in the middle of one of their twirls. The boy was pressed into a corner beside a rather large floral display.  _ Fitting, _ Chan thought to himself with a smile.

“Your majesty? Chan?” Changbin was saying.

“What? Oh, my apologies. I thought I… I was just…” Chan stammered.

“It’s quite alright Chan.” Changbin looked back at him with something warm in his eyes. It was understanding and kind. Unexpecting of anything Chan couldn’t offer up. “My apologies if I’m overstepping, but I take it that there is only one in this room who even stands a chance.”

“I–” Chan flushed, “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, your highness.”

Changbin smiled kindly, “There is someone in this crowd who you would prefer to be with over anyone else who could try for your hand in marriage. Though if he's anything like mine, I take it your father wouldn’t take too kindly to a wedding like that, and that’s why you’re here, dancing with me, and not with your actual choice.”

Chan opened his mouth in some attempt to protest, but he felt the way his eyes drifted to Minho where he stood. Minho lifted a hand in acknowledgement and Chan took a hand away from Changbin to return the action. 

When he turned back to Changbin he was fixed with a knowing gaze. “It’s alright Chan, in a way, I have something similar.” He pointed a painted finger at a young man who stood tall against the wall, eyes trained on where they swayed in the throng of moving nobles and attendees. The boy had longish dark hair, and piercing golden eyes. 

When Changbin pointed at him, his head shot up, immediately alert and appeared as though he were about to come running to Changbin’s aid if need be.

“He’s your bodyguard?” Chan asked, still watching as the boy realised there was no immediate danger. The tension faded from his body and his focus flickered from Chan to Changbin. 

“In a way, but not quite. We trained together when we were young.” Changbin said, still watching the boy. “His name is Hyunjin. He was born with the ability to change his form as he likes.”

“ _ A shapeshifter _ ,” Chan whispered incredulously.

“Incredibly rare,” Changbin said, and his eyes turned somber, “And incredibly dangerous. He was thrown out of his home as a child. My father's guard found him and took him in. They decided he would be the best to take care of me.”

Chan hummed, the boy’s strange appearance made more sense now.

“Though I think we do a pretty good job at looking out for each other.” Changbin said, his expression had softened insurmountably during their discussion. “Whoever your person is Chan, I hope you do find a way to be with them. You’ll be utterly miserable if you’re stuck with someone you can only just tolerate for the rest of your life.”

Chan thought of his parents. Barely friends, forced into a marriage at just twenty years old in order to stabilize the economy of a falling monarchy. They seemed happy enough. 

Though he supposed Changbin was right. They never seemed truly content, his mother seemed to like her time spent outside than anywhere near the palace, while his father tended to reside within his chambers and only left for meals and public appearances.

He found himself looking for Minho again, he was still standing next to the large bouquet in the corner. He shot Chan a confused look and lifted a hand in a questioning thumbs up as though to enquire about how his discussion with Changbin was going.

Chan shot back a hopefully reassuring smile and turned his attention back on Changbin.

“You are in love.”

Chan softly gasped at the accusation, wondering how he had been so easily read, “No–” He began, “I’m just… I wouldn’t…”

Changbin smiled kindly, “I can see it in your eyes. Whoever they are, I’m sure they are lucky to have you.” 

They turned a few more times, and when the song finally came to its end, Changbin stepped back and dropped into a graceful bow.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” He smiled, “I do hope things work out for you.”

“The sentiment goes both ways,” Chan admitted. He was almost sad to see the other prince go. But noticed the minute change in his expression as he turned towards the boy who stood beside the wall.

Chan watched as Changbin weaved through the crowd. When he arrived at his final destination, he opened his mouth to speak soundlessly to the boy, who’s head shot up with his blazing eyes, only to rest on Chan as he stood motionless in the crowd. 

His expression did not change, but he closed his golden eyes slowly and tipped his head in Chan’s direction. And then they were gone. Moving swiftly towards the entrance hall and speaking with the guard at the door who bid them both farewell.

Chan wondered if he’d ever see either of them again. 

◒

“Lee Minho,” Chan started as he approached the corner where Minho had seemingly taken refuge. Minho startled at his voice, but seemed to relax when he realised it was only Chan. 

“I saw you dancing with Seo Changbin,” Minho said, something unnamable flickered in his eyes as he spoke, “Your father will be pleased.”

Chan laughed gently, “No, I don’t think he will.”

Minho looked at him with a concerned frown, which quickly morphed into confusion as Chan lowered himself into a bow with his hand outstretched in front of him. Now was the time for that bravery Chan felt he was so sorely lacking.

“Lee Minho, will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”

Minho covered his mouth with a hand and looked around them nervously. “Chan… Are you sure? I… I really don’t think that’s a good idea. What about all the guests? What about your father?”

Chan took Minho’s hand in his own and kissed it softly, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the knuckle of Minho’s hand and pulled in close, pressing his mouth close to Minho’s ear so he could speak quietly underneath the roar of the bustling partygoers. 

“I don’t care what they think. I would really like to dance with  _ you. _ ” Minho seemed to shake slightly, and Chan continued, “But if you would be uncomfortable, we can pretend I never asked.”

Minho shook his head and pulled away to look Chan in the eyes, “Do you mean it?” He said, “Do you swear this isn’t some cruel joke you’re playing to get back at me for having Yedam hit you with those rocks?”

Chan laughed, “I promise. I promise you.”

Minho looked around again, there were a few guests looking at them curiously, but Chan deduced that that was due to the fact that he was the Crown Prince. 

“What if everyone looks at us?” Minho asked, squeezing Chan’s hand a little tighter.

“Then they look at us,” Chan said earnestly, “And we ignore them and keep dancing.”

At that, Minho nodded. “I trust you.”

Chan pulled on the hand that linked them together and led the way out onto the dance floor.

He held Minho gently, never letting go and always keeping a reassuring hand pressed against his lower back. 

The musicians were playing a gentle waltz, and so together they spun, hands entwined and feet following each other as they twirled around the dance floor. At first, people stared, and Chan noticed the way Minho’s cheeks burned with the sudden attention. 

“It’s ok. We can stop if you’re uncomfortable.” Chan said quietly, pressing his face close to Minho’s so he could be heard over the noise of the crowd.

Minho shook his head. “No it’s… It’s ok. This is nice.” After a moment, Minho laughed, “I– Do you remember when I taught you to dance?”

“When you… Oh god.” Chan pulled a hand away to smack it over his forehead. 

“You were so uncoordinated, it’s a wonder you’re still upright now.” Minho grinned, bright and beautiful and radiant. Chan wondered if the suddenly potent smell of the nearby orchid arrangement had anything to do with the boy he now danced with. 

“I like to think I’m a little more proficient now,” Chan said rather confidently.

“Are you sure about that?” Minho teased as he hooked his foot under the back of Chan’s ankle and swept it out from underneath him.

Chan gasped as Minho dropped him into an improvised dip of some kind. “Now that’s hardly fair,” he complained as he pulled himself upright. 

Minho laughed as the crown prince dusted himself off. “Where did you learn to do that?” Chan finally asked as they resumed their rhythmic turning. _ 1,2,3. 1,2,3. _

“I learnt lots of things when I trained with my mentor.” The smile Minho offered him was fond and seemed reminiscent of his time from when he was a young boy.

They fell into comfortable silence, spinning around and around as song after song changed. Chan could feel the burning stare of eyes on him from across the room.

“I feel that we are being observed rather closely.”

Minho’s hands tightened in Chan’s hold, “Is it your father?” He whispered quietly.

Chan nodded his head once, “I think I’d like to go outside for some fresh air. Would you like to come with me?”

Minho gritted his teeth. “I would.” He said firmly, but Chan still noticed the way his voice seemed to waver.

He wasted no time in pulling Minho behind him as he made his way through the crowd. Occasionally, larger groups would recognise him, and would make room, whereas others only wanted to stop and speak with him. 

“Your Majesty…” The guard by the door said cautiously when they finally found their way to the door. 

“Yes, Dowoon?” Chan surveyed the man for a second.

The guard flinched, “I don’t think I’m supposed to let you leave… This gala  _ is  _ for you.”

“Do you think you could overlook that? Just this once?” Chan flashed the guard his most dazzling smile.

“I– Well, I suppose I could…”

And that was enough to send Chan pushing past the man and practically throwing both himself and Minho through the door. 

“Thank you, Dowoon!” Minho called behind them as they ran.

And out into the night they went, stumbling into each other as a quiet kind of darkness fell over them. 

Somehow they managed to make their way into the royal garden. The moon had cast a strange pale light on the plants and the small cobbled path they walked along seemed nearly invisible in the low light.

They were being welcomed and the night wanted to make them feel at home. The creatures that resided in the garden sung their tiny lilting songs and they all bent together in a beautiful harmony that filled the trees and the night sky.

A lone owl called out from where he sat on a branch in a distant tree and the human pair stopped for a second. Pausing to soak in the sheer wondrousness that came with this time of day.

“Can I show you something?” Minho asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Chan nodded, afraid to speak and shatter what beautiful serenity had embraced them. Minho led the way, taking Chan by the hand and following the path. After multiple turns Minho stopped and in front of them sat Chan’s mother’s greenhouse.

Minho stepped towards the door and pulled out a tiny golden key from the breast pocket of his cloak. 

“Are we allowed in here?” Chan hissed, glancing around nervously.

Minho pushed open the door with a creak. “Would I have a key if we weren’t?”

As they stepped inside, Chan couldn’t help but feel as though he were doing something almost sacrilegious. No matter how worthy Minho seemed to be of entering Chan’s mother’s greenhouse, Chan just didn’t feel as though he were important enough.

He supposed that Minho had always won the queen’s favour when it came down to it, and the lovely summery afternoons he’d seen the pair out gardening together seemed to only confirm these suspicions. 

All thoughts immediately fled from Chan’s mind the second he was inside. If he remembered correctly, the last time he’d been inside the greenhouse was when he was a small child, barely older than seven years old.

His mother had taken his hand and led him around, pointing out her favourite specimens and letting him hold the pots of some of the most valuable flowers. 

“Chan?” Minho was calling gently, he tugged on Chan’s hand, pulling him back to reality. “Come on.”

Minho led him through rows upon rows of plants. Chan had forgotten just how enormous his mother’s greenhouse was. Towering walls covered in blossoming vines and plant pots balanced neatly on tables stacked in a staggering maze that spanned the entire floor space of the building. 

The glass walls let in just enough of the radiant moonlight that everything was encapsulated in a gorgeous shimmering light. 

“Through here,” Minho said, pulling out his little golden key once more. They had arrived at a small door that Chan assumed led to a garden outside, but as Minho pushed the door open, he realised just how wrong he was.

Through the door was a separate room, and inside were orchids.

Hundreds of orchids of varying shapes and colours. All sitting pleasantly alone. Minho dropped Chan’s hand rather unceremoniously and walked around the room, gently touching each flower and stem for a second. Chan couldn’t help but think that everything Minho touched seemed to bloom even more beautifully. 

Under his hands, the orchids twisted their heads upwards, facing themselves towards the roof of the greenhouse, allowing the moon to shine down on them. 

“They’re your mother’s favourites,” Minho said at last, and Chan felt as though a spell had been broken, but as he watched, the orchids continued to bloom, to flourish even as Minho turned his attention away. “She lets me take care of them, comes in here sometimes. To read, or to just sit with the flowers.”

There was a small bench placed in one of the corners, and Chan could imagine his mother sitting there, coming in here with a novel, or her sketchpad and wasting hours in this room. 

He imagined Minho, crouched beside one of the pots, tending to the orchids, and being able to recognise each of their needs, the way he could simply understand what it was that they so desperately required with a single touch.

Chan knew he was staring. He wondered if Minho could feel it, if he knew. Perhaps that would make this whole situation a little less awkward. 

“I’ve always thought it calming to be in here. So secluded from the woes of the palace. They’re awfully straight forward, they always let me know what they’re after, how to take care of them.” Minho had returned his attention to the orchids, and Chan noticed how they preened at the presence of his attention. 

Chan stepped closer, coming to stand just behind Minho to watch over his shoulder.

“They’re lovely,” He breathed, and grinned at the tiny smile Minho allowed himself. 

“They are,” He said rather proudly, “Aren’t they?”

Minho wandered, stepping around the little room slowly, offering a little piece of his attention to each orchid he could reach. Some were placed on little pedestals, and Chan wondered what the significance of each was. 

Minho moved with such breathtaking elegance, and he had the most stunning soft smile adorned on his face and Chan knew then, that he was wholeheartedly head over heels. 

If he didn’t say this now, he never would.

“Minho?” Chan said rather abruptly, it came out a little sharper than he’d intended, and Minho’s head whipped around at the tone.

“Yes, Your Highness?” He said instinctively, but winced at the term. He had long outgrown using formalities around Chan, and the sudden return of the title was jarring. “Sorry.  _ Chan _ .” Minho amended quickly, and the pale flush that spread across his cheeks only confirmed Chan’s suspicions that he too felt suddenly uncomfortable. 

“I–” Chan wasn’t even entirely sure what he was saying anymore, his mouth was moving on its own accord, “I have to say something… To you. But I’m concerned about how it would affect our working relationship.”

Minho’s expression had morphed from confused to concerned in only a matter of seconds, “Are you certain you need to say it then?”

Chan heaved in a shuddering breath, “I feel that if I don’t say this now, I’ll never get the chance to.”

He took half a step closer, watching Minho carefully for his reaction. 

“Go on then,” Minho said uncertainly, eyes unwavering as he stood before Chan expectantly. 

“I–” Chan bit his lip, Minho’s eyes were catching the moonlight that shone through the skylights and they glistened intently, “I’m utterly in love with you,” He whispered at last.

It felt dangerous, finally saying it aloud. Like something had come to a shuddering halt. Like a shift in some impassable frame of time that could never be reversed.

Minho froze. He had been twisting his hands together, but now he stood perfectly still. He wouldn’t meet Chan’s eyes, only stared at some spot just past his shoulder.

It was silent. Not a sound could be heard within the greenhouse, and it was so frighteningly quiet that Chan thought that even the softest breath would break everything into irreparable pieces. 

So he stood. Holding his breath and waiting. Waiting for Minho to just say something. To reject him and say that he’d prefer to be permanently removed from the castle than to continue teaching Chan any longer.

“Say it again.” 

Chan sucked in a gasping breath. “What?” he whispered, unsure he’d heard the other boy correctly. 

“Say it again.” Minho said firmly, finally meeting Chan’s eyes with something burning in his own.

“Lee Minho, I am–” Chan paused, eyes darting over Minho’s face, “I am hopelessly in love with you. I have been for years.”

Minho’s eyes were wide, his lips were parted slightly and once again, he stood perfectly still, just watching. He put a hand out, and Chan watched as it closed the distance between them, coming to rest comfortably against his cheek. 

“Do you mean it?” Minho said, searching for something in Chan’s eyes. 

“More than anything I’ve ever said in my life.” Chan said solemnly, forcing every ounce of meaning he could muster into his voice.

There was a beat of silence. And after a second, Chan lifted a hand to swipe away an eyelash that had landed on Minho’s cheek. 

And that seemed to be enough to spurr Minho forwards. Sliding his hand around the side of Chan’s head to twist his fingers into the hair at the base of Chan’s neck, pulling him closer.

Kissing Minho was everything Chan had ever imagined. He’d never in his wildest dreams even entertained the idea that he would even be offered such an opportunity. 

He lifted his own hands to pull Minho towards him, winding an arm around Minho’s waist, taking the other and resting his hand against the side of Minho’s face, brushing his thumb along the soft skin underneath his eye. 

Their noses bumped awkwardly as they shifted slightly, and Chan felt the way Minho smiled against his mouth. Chan laughed softly and Minho chased after him when he threatened to pull away. Chan twisted his hands into the dense fabric of Minho’s cloak, he’d pinned a golden broach onto the lapel and Chan could feel the way it pressed against his chest.

They broke apart, watching each other as they sucked in quiet breaths. Chan felt alive. His face was practically being split open by the enormous grin that had taken residence there. Minho’s smile was quieter, but his eyes shone with something impossible and Chan just wanted to kiss him again. 

He slid his arm from where it rested around Minho’s waist to catch the other boy’s hand in his own. Twisting their fingers together, he looked to the ground.

“Was that alright?” He asked, suddenly feeling a little nervous. 

Minho laughed, and wrapped both of his hands around Chan’s, “I am hopelessly in love with you Chan, I have been for years.” 

He said it so confidently that Chan felt as though all of the air in his body had been knocked out of him. 

Breathlessly, he asked, “Are you certain? You’re sure?”

Minho only leaned forwards to press another brief kiss to Chan’s lips. “I’m sure, Chan.”

The greenhouse seemed to welcome them as they took a seat on the bench in the corner, choosing to spend the rest of the evening in each other's arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/ghoulhwa)  
> • [cc](https://curiouscat.me/chnledrm)  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning came the rapping of knuckles at Chan’s door.

“Chan?” Younghyun’s voice was painfully loud. “Your parents would like to speak with you.” He paused for a second, and as if Chan needed any more information to convince him to get up, added, “It’s regarding last night’s Gala.” 

Chan shot upright.  _ The Gala. _ The one he had fled with Minho. The important one he was supposed to attend. 

“I’ll be right there!” He called, as he practically tumbled out of his bed. He threw on a shirt and fresh pants and tried his best to look presentable. No doubt his father would be pleasantly surprised that he hadn’t returned to the ballroom after his impromptu exit. 

They were sitting at the breakfast table when Chan went to meet them. His mother sat, slowly stirring her tea by spinning her finger around the spoon and letting her powers do the work. She smiled when he entered the room, but did not look up at him. 

His father – as expected – looked far from pleased when Chan took a seat beside his mother. 

“Good morning,” He said quietly as he pressed a kiss to her cheek, before tipping his head respectfully in his father’s direction. 

He could see the way the king bristled, he had his fork held tightly in a closed fist and he almost looked as though he were prepared to toss it as Chan’s head. 

Chan said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the table, and only glancing up to thank the maid that brought him a cup of tea.

The silence that encapsulated the room was prickly. It burned with something uncomfortable. Something dangerous. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” The King said at last, bursting the bubbling pot of false calmness. “An entire Gala! We threw an entire Gala to find somebody for you to marry and you had the  _ audacity _ to leave in the middle of it?” He said, his face was bright red and the veins on his neck were protruding rather grotesquely. 

Chan stayed silent, he knew it was best to let his father air out his anger during times like these. His mother stayed perfectly still where she sat beside him. 

His father continued, “You are the Crown Prince. And yet you are powerless, unworthy of the throne. And we offer you the opportunity to set something right, and you treat us with such disrespect?”

Chan refused to meet the man’s eyes. His cheeks blazed red with shame, and he wished he would combust on the spot. 

“And to leave with a  _ common _ ? Like your tutor?” The King shook his head disbelievingly. “I’d expected better Chan. At least a nice woman you could have had a son with, or even that Seo prince, it’d be nice to see at least a flicker of my power in anyone ascending to the throne. Anyone would have been better than that  _ glorified gardener _ .”

As the words flew from his mouth, Chan felt his mother straighten in her seat. And as she clenched her fists in her lap, Chan stood upright. 

“You have _ no right _ to speak about him like that.” Chan spat, he stared his father down now, completely unafraid of the man before him.

Chan’s father laughed, cruel and mocking. “No  _ right _ ? Chan, you forget who you’re speaking to. I am the King. Who are you to challenge me?”

There was a pause. Silence on both ends as the two stared each other down. Chan grit his teeth.

“Exactly,” His father sneered, “You are a nobody, useless. And you would do well to remember your place.”

Chan pressed his fingernails deeper into the inside of his palm, certain he’d leave crescent shaped marks behind. He would not back down from his father. 

The King had not finished. “I will see to it, that as long as I am alive, as long as anyone under my current control still resides within this palace, that you  _ never _ rule as a powerless King. Not in my court.”

Chan’s mother gasped, lifting a dainty hand to cover her mouth. 

“What will you do then father?” Chan challenged, “If you die with a worthless heir? What then?”

The King narrowed his eyes, “I have two sons.”

He slammed his hands against the table as he left, tossing his chair across the floor. Chan stood, motionless. His mother shook with shock. 

“Chan?” She said quietly, reaching out a hand towards him. He took it in his own and stared deep into her eyes. There was something akin to panic settling there. “Yedam– He cannot rule, Chan. I won’t let him. He’s not– He isn’t built for this life.”

Chan nodded, “I know. I’ll– I’ll make it right. I’ll figure it out.”

His mother began to cry, gentle streams of tears making their way down her cheeks. His mother had always been reserved, but Chan thought this might have been the first time he’d ever seen her cry.

“Mother–” He was cut off by her thin arms stretching forwards to wrap around him and press him to her front. Her hand wound into his hair and she dragged her nails through like she’d done when he was small. 

“Neither of you are built for this. I–” She broke off with a sob, “If I could– If I were stronger, I would take you both away.”

Chan smiled into her embrace, “Where would we go?” 

“To the mountains,” She said, as though she were retelling a fairy tale to a small child. “Or to the rivers in the east. We’d take Minho, and that darn cat that Yedam loves so much.” She laughed, and sniffed as she pulled away. 

Chan wiped at her tears, trying his best to brush them away. 

“You love him, don’t you?” She asked.

Chan frowned, “He’s my brother, of course I love him.”

His mother laughed softly, “No, no. Not Yedam.”

Chan’s heart felt as though it had stuttered to a halt in his chest. ‘Then who did you… Uh... “

“Don’t play dumb with me, Chan. I’ve seen the way you look at him, that’s love. He’s a good boy.” She smiled at him, Chan had forgotten just how alike she and Yedam were, “Does he know?”

Chan hummed, his chest hurt. “He does.”

“I’m sorry, Chan.” His mother whispered, “If I could help, you know I would.”

She pressed her forehead against his as a gentle breeze blew around them. “I know, Mother. I’ll work this out.”

“I wish you didn’t have to,” she admitted, before kissing him on the forehead and leaving the room.

◒

Chan left a few minutes after his mother. He was late for his lesson with Minho and was hoping that, in light of the events of the night before, Minho would let this one slide. 

He was just rounding a corner to make his way down the hallway to where he knew Minho’s study was when he heard a pair of hushed voices coming from one of the spare tea rooms along the same hallway.

“No– I’ve got to– I’m sorry, Wonpil, I’m expected elsewhere right now, so I’d really appreciate it if you’d–” The voice that spoke was hushed and sounded strangely panicked, it hitched on all the wrong syllables. It felt familiar, and Chan was mentally running circles trying to work out who it belonged to.

And what was  _ Wonpil _ doing in the tea room. He was one of the palace guards and Chan had always thought his post was outside the kitchen. 

“You’ve got the Crown Prince wrapped around your finger. Don’t you, Minho?” Wonpil sneered, and Chan felt his blood run cold. 

In an instant, Chan darted inside. He was met with Wonpil pressed up against Minho. Wonpil had his arms on either side of Minho’s head, holding him so that he couldn’t escape. Chan could see that fear that had taken residence in his voice in the shimmering way Minho glanced at him.

“Wonpil,” Chan said, and with his voice low, he felt dangerous, strangely powerful for once in his life, “I think you might want to take a step back.”

Wonpil whorled around and something akin to pleasant surprise skirted across his face. 

“But Your Highness,” Wonpil said, “Why would I want to do that?” 

Wonpil had been employed in the palace for years, since he was a young boy in fact. Chan wondered if it was something his father had seen in the man. They seemed so alike in so many ways. 

Wonpil’s eyes burned with something dangerous, and Chan was once again reminded of his father. The guard held out a hand in front of him, and from his upwards facing palm, a flickering flame sprouted. 

“Are you threatening me, Wonpil?” Chan said slowly. His own lack of magic was forgotten and the only thing he could think about was getting Minho away from this man. 

Wonpil grinned, and his twisted expression seemed so similar to that of Chan’s father, that Chan just wanted to punch it off his face. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,  _ Your Highness.” _ The flame in his hand burned a little brighter. It was then that Chan noticed that his other hand was still wrapped tightly around Minho’s forearm. 

“Let him go.” Chan said firmly, doing his best to keep his rising nerves out of his voice. He wondered where this behaviour was coming from. Wonpil had always seemed so lovely when they’d met previously.

“Or what, Chan? What will you do?” Wonpil’s hand was completely engulfed in flames now, and he was advancing on Chan slowly, pulling Minho rather forcefully behind him.

Chan could see the way Minho twisted under the man’s grip, the pained way in which he tried to escape.

“Let him go.” Chan said again, “And we can sort this out like men.”

“Chan–” Minho gasped, but was cut off by Wonpil tightening his grip.

“Like men?” The guard said, and his eyes lit, “I suppose we can.” 

He let go of Minho’s arm and shoved him rather forcefully to the side. “Go Minho,” he sneered, “Didn’t you say you had  _ elsewhere to be _ ?”

Minho froze by the doorway, he turned to look at Chan, and opened his mouth as if he were going to say something.

“Go Minho,” Chan said, as reassuringly as he could manage. “Find Yedam. I’ll be ok.”

Minho ran, turning down the hallway and fled as fast as his feet could carry him. And as Wonpil laughed, Chan could only hope he made it somewhere safe. 

Wonpil was fast. He moved across the room on swift feet and was mere inches away from Chan when Chan managed to react. Wonpil was fast, but Chan was faster. Years of powerless defense training had left him relatively skilled. 

Wonpil’s flaming hand came forwards and Chan ducked underneath it at the very last second. He felt the hairs at the top of his head singe at the heat, and shut his eyes as he tried to move away. Quickly he realised that his best chance at making it out of this one without ending up like a burnt piece of toast was to avoid any oncoming attacks until someone brought help. 

Wonpil came at him again, Chan could feel that same heat radiating from the man’s entire body as he shifted, and the fire that flared in his eyes was the same as that which burned in his clenched fist.

“You know, Chan?” Wonpil said as he attempted a strike once more, “You and your brother?” He huffed as Chan ducked under a hit once more, “You’ve never been right for the throne, have you?”

The comment threw Chan off guard, and the lapse in focus cost him time to dodge a blow, and he felt the way the skin on his cheek blistered as Wonpil’s blazing fist swept past. He gasped as he jumped away, lifting his hands to try and block any blows to his face. 

“You see what I mean?” Wonpil asked, unfazed, “You can’t even beat me, and you think you’d make a suitable king.” Wonpil spat as Chan avoided a punch once more. 

There was a gorgeous pedestal like structure standing upright in the corner, something his mother had likely spent thousands on. And placed on top of it was a vase of the queen’s orchids. In an effort to dodge a strike Chan knocked into it, sending the pedestal to the ground and causing the vase to tumble and shatter. 

Chan winced as the glass broke, and suddenly Wonpil was upon him, pinning him to the ground and pressing both his arms down. The fire ate away at the material of his sleeves and soon enough was pressing, tearing away at the flesh of his upper arm.

Wonpil stared down at him, the fire covering his hand was gone, but the heat remained. Shards of glass pressed into his back and he didn’t even feel the slicing pain as everything around him burned. His vision began to fade, his skin felt like it was on fire. The water from the vase soaked into his shirt and he clung to it, grateful for it’s cooling embrace.

“You know what, Chan?” Wonpil hissed, and his voice stung and his hand pressed deeper into Chan’s arm. “When I’m finished with you, I think I’ll go for Yedam next. Then, there’s nothing to stop my ascension to the throne.”

“He’ll– He’ll stop you.” Chan bit out.

“Who, Chan? Your father? Yedam?  _ Minho?”  _ Wonpil laughed, “That _ glorified gardener  _ wouldn’t stand a chance against the likes of  _ me _ .”

And that was when it clicked. That familiar line. Who had been standing guard outside the dining room this morning. Had Wonpil heard Chan’s father’s decision and decided to take things into his own hands?

“You’re powerless, Chan,” Wonpil sneered, “And powerless Kings cannot rule.”

And as Chan’s vision became spotty with the blackness of oncoming unconscious, he felt something stirring. 

The water at his back began to bubble, to shift beneath him. It whispered as it moved.  _ Chan _ . It seemed to say.  _ Chan. _

_ Help me, please _ . He asked. And he was unsure whether he had spoken aloud. Something began to wind around his shoulders, cold and reliving, and as it travelled up his arms, he heard the unmistakable searing of his blistered skin. 

“What?” Wonpil said suddenly, “What are you– What’s going on?”

Suddenly the pressure of Wonpil sitting on top of his was gone, and Chan found that he could breathe properly. His left arm throbbed and hung motionless by his side. He inhaled heavily, filling his lungs and pushed himself upright with his good arm. 

Wonpil was a few metres away, frantically clawing at his throat. There were beads of sweat on every inch of his exposed skin, and the clothes he was wearing were drenched. He made a horrible choking noise and his eyes widened. He sucked in a desperate breath. 

Chan could feel something building inside him, like an endless stream of pressure waiting for release. Everything seemed so loud and his chest felt as though it was going to burst. 

_ This is what you asked for, Chan.  _ That same voice whispered. It was silken and accented like the people who came from the eastern provinces. Wonpil still struggled, eyes bulging out of his head.

“Chan!” He heard a voice shout, coming from outside of his head this time. “Chan! We’re coming!”

The words were muffled, and as Wonpil’s movements slowed, and Chan’s eyesight began to completely fade into an all consuming darkness as gentle hands clung to his skin, peeled away the smouldering fabric covering his shirt. 

And in his last moments of wavering consciousness, he knew nothing else but the combined effort of both his mother and brother’s winds blowing across his festering skin. 

◒

It was silent in his room when Chan woke up. The morning sun was streaming through his window and the beams of light danced softly as he shifted under his blankets.

He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but the presence of clean bandages around his arms and back told him that he had been unconscious for at least a few days. 

The seat closest to his bed was not vacant. Minho was sleeping with his head pressed up against the wall and his little red journal folded around his thumb in his lap. His cloak had been removed and was being used as a makeshift blanket. 

Chan tried to lift himself upright, forgetting about the state of his bad arm and immediately gasped at the pain. 

Minho blinked slowly, clearing the fog of sleep from his eyes.

“Chan?” He asked softly, shuffling in his seat. He closed the space between them in an instant and sunk to his knees beside Chan’s bed. There were tears in his eyes as he put a hand through Chan’s hair almost disbelievingly. “I thought– I thought you'd died… We found you and you weren’t– And your arm–” 

Chan hushed him as he moved forwards to press a kiss to Minho’s lips. “I’m here now, aren’t I? More or less completely intact.”

Minho laughed quietly at that. “You’re getting too good at comforting  _ me _ , when  _ you’re _ the one who’s been through the traumatic event. What am I going to do with you, Chan?”

“You could kiss me again and pretend that everything’s alright…” Chan said sheepishly as he swept away a stray tear that had tracked down the side of Minho’s nose. 

Minho was all too happy to oblige. “You’re a nightmare,” He whispered as he pressed his forehead against Chan’s. 

Chan laced their fingers together, “Tell me Dear, what’s the diagnosis?” He tipped his head at his bandaged arm and didn’t miss the way Minho grimaced at the thought. 

Minho let out a shuddering breath, “He melted away most of the skin, and damaged a lot of the important muscle there. The nurses have done what they could, but it’s going to be a while before you’ll be able to use it properly.”

“I understand,” Chan nodded slowly, he chewed at the dead skin on his lip. “And what of Wonpil?”

“Dead.’ Minho said, and the word fell heavily on Chan’s ears. It didn’t matter that it had been in self-defense, he had had a part in the murder of a person. He wasn’t even entirely sure how he had done it. He remembered that whispering voice, the silky way it had promised help, relief. 

“How–?” Chan started shakily.

“The autopsy found that every vein and artery in his body had dried up. When we found him, he was lying in a puddle of fluid. All of the water in his body had been removed.”

Chan felt a little sick. 

_ This is what you asked for, Chan. _

“Minho–” He tried, “I think– I think that was me… I think I killed Wonpil.”

Chan wouldn’t meet Minho’s eyes. He focused instead on his good hand as it twisted knots into the bed sheets. He could hear that whisper again. But this time it didn’t call his name, it simply babbled and rolled like a flowing stream. 

He closed his eyes, asking the voice to come forwards, and felt that bubbling pressure once more. He was not afraid, and he heard Minho gasp beside him as there was an overwhelming surge and the whispering became a little louder.

He opened his eyes slowly. Spilling from the nearest vase and suspended in the air above his bed was an unmoving sheet of water. He lifted his good hand and stretched out his index finger. The water moulded around his finger as he touched it and when he pulled his hand away it was still completely dry. 

“Thank you.” He said, and the water shifted in the air. 

_ You know where to find us, Chan. _

And then it was gone, spilling back into the vase just has quickly as it had emerged. 

When he turned back to Minho, he found the boy’s eyes wide. “Water…” He whispered, “We never considered water.”

Chan laughed, a little nervously, “It saved me, back with Wonpil. The vase broke, and I asked for its help.”

Minho took his hand and pressed a kiss against his knuckles, “I’m so glad it did.”

“What’s going to happen now?” Chan asked.

“Well,” Minho started, “Yedam wanted to speak with you first when you woke up. Then, I believe your parents wanted an audience with you.”

There was a knock at the door, and it swung open to reveal Chan’s younger brother standing behind it. 

“Speak of the devil,” Chan said with a smile. Before Yedam was bounding across the room to stand by his bedside. 

“I’ll go see that nurse about getting you some more medication,” Minho said with a wink, as he stood and left the room.

“Chan!” Yedam said as he draped himself over the boy, “God, I’m so glad you’re ok. When we found you… You weren’t looking too good. You know your cloak was on fire? But mother and I took care of that pretty quickly. Minho just cried mostly, he wasn’t very helpful.”

“ _ Hey,” _ Chan said sharply. “Could you mind the arm while you’re at it?”

“I’m just joking, Chan,” Yedam laughed softly, as he shifted so as to take his weight off Chan's bad arm, “He made sure you were breathing, which is rather important, I’d say. We were all a bit distressed if I’m being honest.”

Chan sighed, “I’m sorry.”

Yedam narrowed his eyes, “Don’t apologise, Wonpil committed treason. Harming and attempted murder of the crown prince? What was he thinking?” He added incredulously.

“He wanted to ascend to the throne, and father had offered him the perfect opportunity,” Chan murmured.

“Chan…” Yedam began, “What do you mean?”

“It’s not worth worrying over now Yedam. Speaking of… How did you manage to get in here before mother and father?” Chan did his best to swiftly change the subject.

Yedam’s eyes shone, “Minho hasn’t left your side since we found you, I’ve been bringing him meals everyday, and he promised that I’d be the first to know when you woke up.”

Chan smiled to himself.

“You told him didn’t you?” Yedam asked with a satisfied smirk.

Chan nodded, “The night of the gala.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?!” Yedam cried.

“I’ve been a little busy,” Chan said, using his good arm to point at his bandages. 

“Right,” Yedam said sheepishly.

“That reminds me though, I have a question.”

Yedam looked at Chan curiously. “Go ahead.”

Chan took a deep breath, “I want to show you something first.”

And as Yedam nodded, Chan slid his eyes shut. It didn’t take him long to find that whispering voice. It was beginning to appear as though that voice was always present, always remained in the very back of his mind, ready to call upon at a moment's notice. 

That surging pressure came forwards again, but it wasn’t startling anymore, Chan found that he’d already grown used to it. It seemed familiar, as though it were a feeling he’d always known.

_ We know this one. _ The voice said,  _ A brother. _

Chan opened his eyes again to see Yedam staring with wide eyes. The form the water took was different this time, still suspended in the air, but more pointed, curious. 

“It speaks to me,” Chan said quietly, “I wanted to know if your winds did the same.”

“Chan– When did you–” Yedam opened and closed his mouth as though trying to articulate a coherent sentence. 

“Wonpil.”

Yedam closed his mouth and turned his attention back to the water, he reached out a hand and it seemed as though it shifted to meet him. Curling around his hand in the same way as it had for Chan. 

_ He is not like us. _

“It speaks to you?” Yedam asked as he flexed his fingers, the water moved around him, hissing and whispering as it went. 

“There’s a voice,” Chan tried, “It knows me, knows you. I think it knows most things, and when I speak to it, it responds.”

Yedam nodded, “For one thing, the winds are not  _ mine _ , they bring word of what they’ve seen, things they’ve heard. I suppose we’ve never properly conversed, but when I ask something of them, they oblige.”

_ But he does not burn like the man on the throne.  _

“Oh,” Chan said simply. The voice seemed bitter, but then again, it always seemed to be. Perhaps this wasn’t so strange, maybe it just worked differently for each person.

He felt it then, the swishing presence of Yedam’s air, blowing softly through the room. The water shifted as the breeze blew past.

“It feels like you,” Yedam said, “It feels like water, but I can feel your hand in it’s manipulation.“

Chan wondered if it was a similar feeling to the way he could recognise both his mother’s and brother’s winds. It was clear that it was still the breeze that blew through the gardens, but the hand that moved it was evidently a familiar one. 

There was yet another knock at the door, and Chan startled, sending the water fleeing back to its vase. Yedam’s winds disappeared and it was still and silent in the room as the door opened.

Younghyun was the first to enter, and following behind him was Chan’s parents, and lastly Minho. The boy kept his eyes on the floor, but glanced up to meet Chan’s eyes to shoot him a brief smile. 

Chan’s mother moved to stand at the opposite side of his bed to Yedam and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “How are you feeling, dear?” She asked and her voice was soft and soothing.

“I’m alright, Mother.” He assured her with a smile. 

Chan’s father stood at the end of the bed, expression unchanging. “Wonpil was found dead under some strange circumstances.” He said monotonously, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Chan?” He asked, and his tone sounded almost threatening. 

“Of course not father,” Chan said cautiously, “But I would hope that whoever killed that treasonous guard would be commended by the palace.”

The King sucked in a slow breath, “You are absolutely correct, Chan,” There was something challenging in his voice, and Chan could feel the pressure building once more, “Have you made any improvements recently?”

The room was silent, and the whispering in his ears was growing louder by the second.

Chan grit his teeth, and tried to stabilize his voice as he spoke, “Let's put it this way, Father,” The rustling surge of moving water filled his head, more than before with Minho, more than with Yedam, “Perhaps you won’t have to die with a powerless heir.”

Behind the King, a wall was forming. Water from every vase in the room poured out and into the shape of a man, nearly the same height as Chan’s father. 

Younghyun noticed it first, “Your Highness!” He gasped and pointed at the space where the figure was forming.

Chan’s father turned and stared into the two hollowed eyes of the water man. It stayed motionless, until the fluid at the top of its head began to shift, stretching upwards into five even points, resembling a crown. 

Chan shut his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyelids. He heard the sound when the structure dropped to the ground, the release of that building pressure. The water hit the ground with a cracking sound and as quickly as it had formed, it began to creep its way back into its vases. 

Chan’s father did not turn around when he next spoke, “I see.” He said simply, before lifting a hand and beckoning for Younghyun to follow behind him. 

Chan looked to his mother, but she remained by his bedside. She put out a hand and entwined her fingers with his.

“You brilliant boy,” she whispered. And Chan didn’t think he’d ever seen her smile so wide. 

◒

Things seemed to return to normal relatively swiftly. Chan’s arm still hadn’t completely healed, and he was still getting used to the presence of the water voices that seemed to flood his head so often, but Yedam helped him learn to block them out when they became to overpowering, and Minho was regularly researching powerful water manipulators in order to find someone to help mentor Chan. 

Chan’s father had almost entirely backed off and had made no further comments of threats regarding Chan’s ability to inherit the throne. Talk of what had happened to Wonpil was few and far between and most days the only discussion of the matter came from the water voices when he let them in.

The people outside the palace walls learnt of Chan’s powers soon enough, and their critical stances on his ability to rule dissipated like smoke in a turbulent wind. 

Often, he and Minho would walk together down to the stream that ran through the palace gardens. Minho would sit with his hands pressed into the grass, rubbing his hands over the dirt, eyes closed as the setting sun shone over him, while Chan sat with his socks and shoes tossed a few metres away and his pants rolled up to his knees, dangling his feet in the running water. 

This evening, as the last of the sun dropped away behind the horizon, Chan crawled over to where Minho sat and lay next to him. He found Minho’s hand and entwined it with his own, humming softly as Minho turned slightly towards him. 

The boy lifted his spare hand to cup Chan’s cheek and brushed his thumb along the ridge of Chan’s eye socket. Chan pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Minho’s palm.

Together they lay, staring up at the darkening night sky.

Mornings were Chan’s favourite time of the day, but the evenings were beginning to grow on him.

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/thekeehorse)  
> • [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ghoulhwa)  
> 


End file.
